Chapter 9
736 Words
Olga POV
It happens quietly.
That’s the worst part.
There’s no moment I can point to and say this is where I failed. No dramatic realization, no stolen touch that tips me over the edge.
It slips in between routine and responsibility.
Between bandages and clipped words.
Between eye contact held a second too long.
Between the way Ivan listens when I speak—really listens, like every word matters even when he pretends it doesn’t.
I hate it the moment I realize it.
I’m changing a dressing when it hits me.
My hands are steady, practiced, familiar with the shape of his ribs by now. He’s sitting still—too still—watching the wall like he always does. I tell him to breathe normally, and he does.
Immediately.
No argument.
No tension.
And my chest tightens for reasons that have nothing to do with medicine.
This is bad.
Very bad.
I step back a little too quickly, clearing my throat. “That should heal fine if you stop pretending you’re indestructible.”
He glances at me. “I don’t pretend.”
“I know,” I say softly—and I hate myself for how gently it comes out.
That’s when I know.
I’m falling for him.
For a man made of restraint and violence.
For a man who doesn’t talk about himself but carries his history in scars and silence.
For a man who never asks for care but accepts it when it’s offered—with something like respect.
I hate it because I know better.
I hate it because I promised myself I wouldn’t.
I grew up in a world where men like Ivan are admired from a distance and survived by avoiding. I watched women love men like him and disappear into their shadows, their lives shrinking until all that remained was fear dressed up as loyalty.
I won’t be that woman.
I won’t romanticize danger.
I won’t mistake intensity for safety.
And yet—
When he walks into the clinic, my body reacts before my mind does. Awareness sparks low in my stomach. My pulse shifts. I notice things I shouldn’t—the line of his jaw, the way his hands clench when he’s in pain, the rare moments when his guard slips and something tired shows through.
I start anticipating him.
That terrifies me.
I find myself wondering if he ate.
If he slept.
If he’s bleeding again somewhere he won’t mention.
I hate myself for that too.
He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t touch me unnecessarily. He never crosses a line.
That makes it worse.
Because it means whatever is happening isn’t manipulation or charm.
It’s real.
And real things can ruin you.
Angelica notices.
Of course she does.
“You’re quieter lately,” she says one afternoon while her son naps. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I lie smoothly.
She studies me for a long moment, then smiles gently. “Careful, Olga.”
My stomach drops. “About what?”
“About men who don’t ask to be saved,” she says. “They’re the hardest to love.”
I look away. “I’m not loving anyone.”
She doesn’t argue.
That night, alone in my room, I sit on the bed and press my palms into my eyes, trying to breathe through the frustration clawing at my chest.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want to care whether he’s hurting.
I don’t want to notice the way his voice drops when he says my name.
I don’t want the warmth that spreads through me when he listens—really listens—to what I say.
I especially don’t want the thought that keeps returning, uninvited and dangerous:
If anyone deserves peace, it’s him.
That’s the lie that gets women killed.
I stand abruptly, pacing the room.
This ends now.
I will be professional. Distant. Careful.
I will not fall for Ivan Volkov.
I will not let myself imagine what it would feel like if he ever let his guard down completely.
I will not wonder what kind of man he could be if the world hadn’t shaped him into a weapon.
I repeat it like a vow.
Like a shield.
But deep down, where honesty lives—
I already know the truth.
I’m not afraid of Ivan.
I’m afraid of the part of me that sees the man beneath the armor…
…and wants him anyway.
- Writer
